


watched, wanted

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, Private Show, Voyeurism, camboy, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: He’s done this before and will do this again, and he still doesn’t know why it feels both so alien and so comforting to him, to feel the way his own body moves. The way it almost feels so calculated, so deliberate, like he’s showing off already.





	watched, wanted

**Author's Note:**

> I am very literally writing for [this gorgeous nsfw image of Noctis](https://twitter.com/JunkyardSHADi/status/1126885882357780480), so please go give my friend Shadi some love.

Draft that nips cool and damp at the skin of his wrists, the movements of the tendons and the joints that aren’t -- winding up to throw a punch. The careful bite of climate-control, catching at his senses, making him pay attention to the shift of his own muscles, the illicit thrill racing down his nerves. 

He’s done this before and will do this again, and he still doesn’t know why it feels both so alien and so comforting to him, to feel the way his own backbone moves. The way it almost feels so calculated, so deliberate, when he tilts his hips one way and then another, like he’s showing off already when he knows for a fact that the little camera propped up on the desk before him is still turned off. Absence of that pinpoint of light in its upper-left corner, and the blank stare of its lens.

And -- what would the person on the other end of that camera think of him, still wary, still skittish, and that just doesn’t make sense, because -- trust, trust, he trusts that other person with nearly every small and fragile part of his jagged-edged heart and soul.

What of his body, though? What of the scars seaming his arms, and the long wicked slashes that never healed properly and so they’re old-red raised lines crossing the interiors of his elbows, crookedly following the lines of the main blood vessels and -- again he feels a different presence in this room that holds nothing but him and a bed and that table with the camera on it. No windows, and the locks on the door that still hold his own fingerprints because he’s the only person who goes into this room, he’s the only person who throws all the locks into their secured positions.

Blanket: he shivers, and gives in to the impulse to pull one from the bed, and half-drape it over his exposed shins. Sometimes it’s too cold in here. Sometimes the world gets too hot around the edges and he can’t wait to -- tear away the clothes he’d be wearing to get in here in the first place. 

Gooseflesh across his arms, the shift of the ice-worn nerves in his back and in his shoulders, and he grits his teeth. This is not a ring of any kind. The only thing he has to fight in here is the nervousness of -- all the what-if. All the mistrust. All the doubts.

Click, only just below the edge of his hearing. The only thing he’s got left on now is the tiny receiver in his ear. No cords on this, just the perfect shape of the speaker, the perfect calibration on it, that allows him to -- hear. Breaths, steadying, and not his own. The calm deliberation of someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who knows what he’s going to be doing -- 

“It’s just me. Safe word?”

Noctis takes a deep breath and says it out loud: “Indigo.”

“Yes. Do you need to use it?”

He says the words because he’s supposed to, because he’s required to respond to that question, but -- he changes, halfway through. Hears the shift in his own voice. “I don’t. Not now.”

The pause that is as good as a question, lingering in his ear, before there’s an answer. “Mm.”

And the camera’s little indicator light blinks to green.

Noctis squares his shoulders and -- pulls the blanket off, and now he’s comprehensively bared to that unblinking lens, to that unwavering gaze. 

He knows he carries too much tension in him. He knows the tremor that runs in his arms, down from his knees -- he knows he’s learned, somehow, over too many years and the terrible ordeal of being stared at practically from the cradle -- to stop that tremor from ever reaching his own hands. He’s built a reputation on those hands, on his fists, on the power that coils and cords in his shoulders, in the breadth of his chest and his back.

And he can almost imagine the camera, moving, panning, over every inch of his bared skin, and he -- can’t help but respond to it, too.

Another way of having been stared at, that’s all -- but maybe he could trust this one. Maybe he could make himself remember. The person on the other side of the camera, the person murmuring indistinctly in his ear. One person, and he thinks of that morning, and the wild peaks of sleep-fluffed hair, blinding-golden in the faint bars of the sunshine that had made it through the multiple layers of curtains -- 

It’s enough for him to -- shift. Relaxing. The tension bleeding ever so gently out of him, leaving him shaking only a little. Relief, cooler than the room itself, and he -- smiles.

The whispering in his ear falls silent as he rearranges himself on the bed. It’s tilted a certain way, so the entirety of it falls squarely within the field of view of the camera. Soft cushions, the blanket that he’d hid behind, and the smooth flow of the sheets against his skin, as he gets comfortable, as he -- almost involuntary, this movement -- runs his own hand over himself. 

The slope of his shoulder, the definition of his chest. Fingertips counting over the visible indents of his own ribcage, the bones and the negative spaces alike. The scant give of the skin over his stomach, and the coarse curl of his own hair in its ragged line that leads down from his navel -- 

And then he’s smiling. Eyelids fluttering shut.

This, this is always the part that makes him do this.

The tease, the playing, and no one telling him to do anything.

Yes, the camera is there, the earpiece is there, and with those two things he can more than imagine an actual physical presence.

But there’s no one here.

There’s no one here but him.

This is for him.

So -- so he lets the rest of his doubts and fears flow away from him at last, trickling, cold, away and into the warming air around him. His own body, responding. His own thoughts, turning -- gentle and also as inexorable and unstoppable as the tides he’d grown up watching, set far over them, ever taunted by the salt-air that he took in with every breath -- 

Purpose, now, when he touches himself. Not to present anything. Not to show off. Just the simple animal pleasure of running trails of warmth over his own skin. The tease of pressure, and the different kinds of it he can apply. Brush-stroke touches to his own throat, as he swallows and catches his breath. A little more pressure as he skims over the lines of his own collar-bones. Lingering spiral in the hollow over his sternum.

Breaths in his ear that aren’t his own. Rapt and quiet. The avid gaze of the camera.

He’s aware of those things, vaguely: but he’s more interested in the sensations rushing along his nerves, like sharp edges and flame, pleasure that he’s trying to build and build for his own benefit.

He knows how to -- draw it out, for himself, because that’s always been the fantasy that’s caught in the edges of his mind, even when he’s rushing to get off. The thought of taking his time. The thought of being known so well and so thoroughly. 

Even in the odd spots, the unexpected knots of his nerves firing haywire, so close, so close he’d almost burst out of his own skin. A finger’s-width down from the crook of his elbow on his left arm -- that spot makes him nearly jump, voice catching in his throat on a moan, when he applies heavy pressure with his thumb. An arc-shape of skin high up on his right flank, almost following the ghost of another old scar -- he scratches his nails into it and shivers, laughs a little because he’s literally doing this to himself and yet -- and yet.

It isn’t just the room that’s -- making him feel like he’s now a live-wire. The cool air, the cling of the sheets, the warmth he’s generating all on his own. Thoughts in his head that are a clamor, that are a clash, need need need sharpening in him, and he -- lets out that sigh, that half-moan, and he knows the name that lingers on the tip of his tongue.

“If you want to -- ” says the voice in his ear, still impossibly even and gentle. “If you need me.”

“Let you know,” he all but grits out.

Touching himself in earnest, now. No more holding back -- that was the point of this whole exercise. 

Hiss of his own breath as he rakes his nails down, over chest and ribs and the heave of his torso. The hard pebbled shapes of his own nipples as he rolls one, and then the other, between his fingertips. Nothing gentle in that touch, either, twisting enough for the pleasure-shock to acquire an edge of pain. 

Lower, scratching over his stomach and then down, past his hips. He plants his feet on the bed now, digs his nails into his thighs -- he shivers as he does the outsides and then goes slack and needing as he does the insides, stopping just short of his groin and his hands drop back to the sheets as he shivers, as he moans. Shake of his own nerves, his own growing and growing need, hammering at him and he’s gone entirely sightless. 

He could almost want that other touch, now, that other presence, playing his body so well and so thoroughly. He could almost want real eyes on him, watching him twist himself into the perfect knot of his own fantasies, his own desire. He could almost want -- a mouth on his, stealing his breath, leaving him drugged and choking with bliss.

“Hand on your cock, come on,” whispers the voice in his ear. 

“Don’t -- I’m -- ”

“You’re not coming until I say. You know that.”

Oh gods. The edge of command in those words, like white-hot fire, like steel laid along his skin.

Need that pins him down to the bed, leaves him slow and ungainly as he takes himself in hand. He can feel the doubling of his own pulse -- the one that runs in his wrist and the one that runs through his cock -- it makes him shiver out another moan, another breathless wordless plea, and then -- then he opens his eyes and looks down the length of his own body, looks at his hands.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, the same hard grip he uses but it’s not his speed at all.

The cadence is not his because it belongs to the person who’s whispering to him now, who’s urging him on now.

“Slow, slow, I know you can take it. I know you want it like this. I want you to feel it, feel this, your hand’s so beautiful, you look so damn beautiful like this.”

“Not gonna last,” he warns, or he thinks he tries to warn: already he’s more than blanking out around the edges.

“You will. You can. Or you can use the -- things,” says the voice in his ear.

He stops, then.

Things?

The roar in his ears recedes, far too slowly, and he has to make himself roll towards the pillows because he doesn’t even have the strength to sit up any more: and before he thinks that might make him look like an idiot to the camera, he lands entirely on his stomach and he moans out loud at the feel of the cooler spot in the sheets, soft soothing against the heat already building up between his legs --

It’s all he can do to touch himself again and even then he -- mindlessly rocks into the loose space of his curled-up fingers and thumb. Ruts into the bed and his reward is more than just the renewed threat of his climax suddenly overwhelming him again.

The words in his ear: “That is exactly how beautiful you look when you’re being fucked.”

“I, please,” he thinks he babbles. 

Oh, he’s an inferno now, he’s all the heat in the room and all the fierce edges of his need riding him -- 

“Listen,” says the voice in his ear, the only warning he gets before the sweet soft moaned cry, sound that splinters on the edges, that gorgeous lash and spur and it’s by a sheer supreme effort that he doesn’t come on the spot.

“Please,” he says again -- he says it again, begging, begging, to the rhythm of the slow sweet slide of his hand on his cock.

Gasping in his ear, and blurred laughter, and then, finally, finally: “You’ve earned it. Go.”

Even with that -- he doesn’t feel like he needs to speed up any more -- all thought of toys and restraints banished from his mind and he -- lets himself build, build, once again to the climax and he tries to stay on the edge for as long as he can, for as long as he dares -- until he finally catches his own nail just under his cockhead and then he comes, half a scream dying in his throat -- choking on his own relief and his own gratitude.

And -- he doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t hear the thud of footsteps crossing to him -- all he knows is a new blanket, fresh and warm and soft, draped over him and then over it, the warmth of human presence, human contact. Shadows of freckles on bare skin -- freckles, so that’s familiar, that’s someone he knows, and he doesn’t have to do anything but exist, in this moment of being. Just being. His own body, his own nerves, his own pleasure.

The kiss that lands like sweet benediction on his mouth. The whispers of approval. “Good, you were so good, you were so good. You are beautiful.”

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- or, hey, if Tumblr becomes too rotten and we can't talk there any more, there's always Twitter, where I am @ninemoons42.


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